


A Way to Come Together

by SweetGanymead



Series: More Gullible Than Innocence [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Body Image, M/M, Oral Sex, Self-Acceptance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 07:56:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10485972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetGanymead/pseuds/SweetGanymead
Summary: The Bull and Dorian improve Tevinter-Qunari relations while working out personal issues.





	1. Destruction of Personal Property

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bull gets Dorian all hot n bothered.

The Iron Bull was an early riser, in more senses than one. It sometimes made it difficult, at the beginning of a relationship with smaller partners, to satisfy his more acute urges. Sleepy fucking still required a little prep work for those not accustomed to riding The Bull.   

He would say it made things _hard_ and Dorian would groan before rolling over, taking the rest of the sheets with him to the far side of the bed.

There was absolutely no getting Dorian up before the sun barring dire circumstances. Usually, this left the great warrior no choice but to await a more sensible hour or to polish his own sword.

This particular morning, Bull opted for the later; pulling closer to his bedfellow so he could breathe his scent, feel the warmth rising from beneath the blankets.

Bull did his best to catch most of his own essence in his hand. He had never been fully able to grasp the point of expensive bed linens. If you couldn’t tear them up or get them dirty, they missed out on two of their basic functions.

He moved to the wash basin. By now the water was cold to the touch. Bull contemplated poking Dorian awake, asking him to reheat the water. If he managed the feat, the mage would certainly boil it to a scalding point out of spite. Probably better to brave the cold.

The tub was set into an ornate metal stand. Delicate silverite trays could be pulled from under like wings. Each tray contained bottles, bars and flakes of soap, creams, bitty jars. As long as The Bull placed things back roughly where he found them, Dorian gave no indication anything in the stand was off limits.

 _Except_ the moustache cream. Do not _touch_ the moustache cream, Bull reminded himself with a shudder.

He treated himself to some lathering shaving oil. It tingled on his skin, like eating a hot pepper, and offset the chill of the cold water.

Bull assessed his person as he patted his face dry. Without his scruff, the wrinkles and scars seemed to show more starkly. He sought out the tiny pot containing a sweet smelling emollient Dorian advised was good for smoothing out lines.

With a quick glance behind him to make sure Dorian was still dozing, Bull removed his eye patch. The socket was empty now, the eye itself had to be removed after an infection, the lid segmented by two jagged gashes.

The cream was soothing. Bull dabbed it over the scars, rubbed some on his dry lips. With a sigh, he scooped out a little more and applied it to his entire face.

Still not satisfied, The Bull replaced the pot and found a larger bottle with a pump. He slathered the lotion on himself by the handful, stopping at his middle.

What had Varric said?

That the Iron Bull’s belly was prone to rippling after meals, that the qunari didn’t wear shirts because they ripped under the strain of his girth.

A really, really hurtful thing to say.

Bull tried a few flexes in the mirror. One really couldn’t accuse him of being fat, he tried to tell himself, tried not to remember himself in his prime.

Once, he had been all hard lines, defined angles, obliques and glutes chiselled from aurum. He remember no small amount of vanity as a young warrior. His chest a massive expanse, his waist tapered.

Now he was, what, a beer belly and _pillowy man bosoms_.

Behind him, he could hear Dorian shifting under the blankets, though the mage was probably not quite awake yet.

The Bull returned to the bed to snuggle the smaller form under the covers. A nettling sensation caught in his chest, pulled at his heart.

Dorian’s skin is soft and smooth. His well developed muscles evident underneath. Only a slight squeeze is needed to ascertain his perfect round ass is firm, not a trace of adipose tissue there. He is very handsome, and he is the first to let you know it. The difference in their years cannot be more than 10, but one might not know that from simply looking.

The smaller man stirred, but did not open his eyes, smiled sleepily as Bull’s large hands explored his body.

The feeling is not jealousy. Bull can tell that much. He knows this for a fact because he _had_ experienced jealousy around Dorian before. But it was directed towards a strapping, well-dressed gentleman at the Winter Palace. The first time Dorian had ever been so publicly courted, the mage recounted later, amid respectably society.

Bull doesn’t let himself dwell on the memory. Dorian’s flush, his shy smile despite turning down the offer for a drink on the balcony.

Bull permits himself to remember their dance, his victory. Reminds himself it was he who would take Dorian home that night, The Iron Bull who gets the pleasure of fucking the mage like a rag doll on a creaky bed; it’s The Bull’s own name he hears screamed in ecstasy again and again.

“Someone’s been playing apothecary.” Dorian’s drowsy mummer brought Bull back into the present. Heavy lidded eyes gazed up at him.

They don’t focus on the empty socket, the gouges, the wrinkles. They rest on Bull’s good eye, easing the knot in Bull’s chest.

Dorian’s fingers reach for his face, touch the scarred cheek tenderly, loving.

“Smooth.” The mage mumbles, “So kind of you to make yourself pretty for me.”

There is no irony, no cruelty, in the statement. Bull wonders if mages can read minds.

“What? I don’t need a reason to pay you a compliment.”

That’s… uncanny. Perhaps The Bull is simply wearing his heart on his face this morning.  

The larger man lowered to kiss smooth, dark lips deeply.

It is probably still too early for a fuck, Bull quickly decides he isn’t quite in the mood for one either. He dips under the covers, his horns holding them up, giving him room to work. Between the slender brown thighs, Dorian is already at half mast.

Bull lovingly licks the head, tugs gently on the soft curly hair framing the shaft. Dorian moans on the other side of the blankets.

He uses his massive hands to tilt smaller hips up, tongue tracing Dorian’s most intimate area. He plunges his long tongue inside, enjoying the sounds of surprised delight, Dorian grabbing at his horns through the sheets.

Bull lets his saliva pool so his fingers will slide in more easily. He can’t see his ‘Vints face, but can imagine it perfectly, eyes still closed, brows drawn together, mouth open panting.

He works his thick fingers into Dorian, resumes his sucking. Now the smaller man is writhing and whimpering, grinding and bucking. Bull stuffs another finger into him, curling all three together.

Above the sheets, Dorian shouts his name a final time before collapsing against the mattress.

Bull lazily slurps up the remainder of Dorian’s seed, still easing his fingers out. He is starting to feel a bit better about himself when the mage suddenly twists away from him, crying out in panic.

The big man doesn’t move quite fast enough, gets kicked in the jaw and tumbles off the bed in his haste to move. The blankets are caught on his horns, he gores them, in his desperation to pull them off.   

Dorian is about as awake as Bull has ever seen the man, on his feet frantically beating the flaming curtains with a pillow, trying to put them out. It takes Bull a moment to realise the mage must have set them ablaze in his groggy, lustful state.

The look Dorian gives him when he begins to laugh is anything but tender.


	2. Adventures in Mutual Domesticity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes a cigar is a cigar, and curtains are just curtains.

“I said I was sorry.” The Bull repeated for the 14th time.

“Curtains _and_ blankets ruined. I really liked those blankets.” Dorian was still pissy, the only way Bull could get him to stop fuming was by offering to replace the torn sheets.

“Hey, you kicked me in the face today, but you don’t hear me bitching.”

The smaller man reflected for a moment.

“And don’t say I head-butted your foot.”

Dorian looked a little peeved, beaten to the punch.

They continue perusing the Orlesian merchant’s wares. The man’s keen eye finding faults with stitches so small the large qunari must bend over to even see them. Bull is beginning to get a bit bored, but feigns interest because it lets him stand close to Dorian in the crowded market.

“What do you think of these?” Dorian held them up to his taller companion.

They looked like blankets. You could probably call them quilts. It was hard to think of anything else to say. From their weight, they might have wool batting inside.

“They look warm, cozy.” The Bull hoped his answer was sufficient.

It seemed to be satisfactory. Dorian ran his hands over the multicoloured square but found no imperfections. Bull was made to handle them again, to agree they were acceptable.

“Do these come with matching pillow cases?” When the merchant let him know they did, “They’ll do, then.” Dorian sounded more chipper already.

Bull paid for the blankets, even carried them back to Dorian’s room to help him make the bed.

He was rewarded for his thoughtfulness, Dorian coyly suggesting they test out the sheets, break them in.

 

The day was still young when Bull released Dorian’s hair, letting a long expanse of softening cock slide out of his throat. The man was getting damn good at swallowing dick.

They laid back on the blankets- they really were very soft- catching their breath. Slender brown fingers traced the lines carved in Bull’s flesh.

“Do they still hurt?” Dorian’s tone was curious, academic.

“No.” The Bull suddenly felt self-conscious, “Why?”

Dorian doesn’t offer a verbal response. Instead, he nimbly draws invisible glyphs through and around the scars. The prickly sensation in Bull’s skin was pleasant.

“Hmm. Think you could do that while giving me a hand job?”

“Seems a waste of good magic,” Dorian gripes, “when I have capsaicin oil.”

Bull made a mental note to ask again, when the mage was hornier. So easy to get what he wants when Dorian is horny.

“I still need to get curtains.” A statement of bitter fact. “Will you come with me? Give me your opinion?”

It doesn’t seem like it should matter, to either of them. Still, The Bull catches a bashfulness in the request.

“Do you really want my opinion? Or do you just want company?” Bull didn’t wait for the reply, decided it didn’t matter, “Yeah, sure, why not.”

 

 

 

They did not head out to shop for curtains that evening. Dorian expressed his mortification at being caught replacing too many soft furnishings at once, as if prying eyes would guess why he needed them.

The Bull didn’t argue, just promised he would accompany him later in the week. They parted ways in the courtyard so Dorian could head to the library and Bull could get some training done.

Krem greeted them both, found his scabbard interesting when they shared a kiss goodbye.

When they were alone, Bull asked, “Is bedding particularly important to people in Tevniter?”

“Bedding? No more than anywhere else I’ve lived.” Krem responded, “For most people, I think getting enough to eat is a bigger priority. So long as you aren’t freezing your tits off, you probably aren’t too concerned with linens.”

“Hmph. Must be an magister thing, then.” Bull mused.

“Sounds like a Dorian-thing to me, Chief.”

 

 

They train hard, The Bull putting in extra effort as if he can sweat away years of comfortable living. By the end of their mock match, Krem is having trouble holding his shield up.

“Shit, Chief,” He is breathing hard, drenched in sweat, “maybe you want to hit me a little harder? I’m pretty sure you hurt my feelings with that last blow.”

“Do you think a demon is going to take your feelings into consideration? Shield up!”

Krem lowers his weapons. His posture is not one of defiance.

“If I had a little white flag, I’d be waving it right now.”  Hissrad sees the Charger is picking apart his expression. There was a time when the qunari flirted with his lieutenant, found the bundled socks a source of unnecessary charm.

There isn’t much of the inexperienced young Aquon-Athok before him. The man who regards him now is wiser, intuitive, a man who has watched the Ben-Hasrath closely and taken the observed lessons to heart.  

The Bull contemplates charging him, knocking him to the grass. Rather than double down, the warrior relaxes his stance, grumbling to himself about human weakness.

“I don’t mean to overstep a boundary here,” Krem starts carefully, “but I venture a guess you and Pavus got into a fight today?”

He’s missed the bull's eye by a little, but his assumption has landed in the general area. The day The Bull must lie to his second is the day he will relinquish command of his Chargers.

“He wants me to help him pick out curtains.”

For a second Krem stares at him in disbelief. His mouth is distorting, like he is suppressing a laugh. He clears his throat, lips still pressed together tightly.

“I’m going to go out on a limb here. That sounds like a good thing.”

“I don’t have an opinion on curtains.” Bull finds the conversation harder than its subject matter should allow.

“Pavus- Dorian- isn’t asking you about _curtains_ , Chief. He wants you to have an opinion on something you don’t give a shit about, in its relation to him, his life.”

“How was I supposed to know that?” The qunari is irrationally angry about the revelation.

“I could be wrong.” Krem appears to be recalling before he speaks again, “I used to have a close friend back in Tevinter. She was a very pretty girl, had all sorts of aspirations to marry above her station. She would make guys do all kinds of dumb, out-there kaffas to decide if they were marriage material.”

“So he wants me to marry him?”

The Charger does laugh at Bull’s expression.

“No, well, probably not. _Maybe_ ask you to share quarters. He might just want to know you’re interested on a more-” he leans his head from side to side, pondering what he wants to say, “Domestic level. Like you’re planning to stick around. Find out if you are interested in building something together. A life, a home.”

Bull reflects for a beat. He certainly cares for Dorian. Likes him, appreciates his company, hasn’t envisioned a life which doesn’t include him. Moving in doesn’t sound too bad, sounds convenient, actually. The Bull doesn't own very much, it would all fit in Dorian’s room with space to spare.

“Good practice, Krem.” Bull says finally.

“See you in the Rest later, Chief.”

 

Bull returned to Dorian’s room to wash up before dinner. The door was unlocked, though the mage is only sitting at his desk, engrossed in a esoteric-looking tome.

Dorian looked up briefly from the book to give Bull the once over. He appeared to finish a line, to find a stopping place, before closing and setting it aside.

Dorian poured fresh water from a pitcher into the basin, heated it with a few motions of his hand. Bull watched him add a few drops of oil, stir it with a dark, graceful finger.

“Just a touch of Elfroot, a dash of spindleweed.” Dorian assured him, answering an unasked question, wetted a large sea sponge. “It’ll help with muscle fatigue, promote recovery.”

“Oof! You smell frightful.” Dorian stated, wrinkled his nose as he hands Bull the sponge.

Despite his complaint, the smaller man wrapped his arms around The Bull, hugging him from behind. Deft brown hands removed the harness, let it fall softly on the floor. The hands drifted lower, undoing Bull’s belt buckle.

Bull stood awkwardly, did not prevent Dorian from undressing him, from falling to his knees to suck hungrily at his rapidly stiffening cock.

He was just beginning to lose himself when Dorian abruptly pulls away with an audible pop. The mage’s grin is devilish, taunting, baiting.

“You stink. Wash up.” Dorian decries, getting to his feet. “If you do a good job, I may let you fuck me before dinner.”

In that instant, The Bull knows he wants Dorian in his life, for as far forward as he can foresee. If that means pretending to give a shit about blankets, pillowcases, drapes, floral scented soaps, even Maker-be-damned antique bookends, he will gratefully endure.

He dries himself, sits on the bed alongside the imperious ‘Vint who is thoughtfully comparing pieces of fabric pasted to board.

“What’s this?” Bull asks, taking one up.

“Oh, these? Swatches.” Dorian answers as if the word should mean something to The Bull.

“Right,” the mage continues, as if he’s forgotten something, “I ran into Josephine in the Hall today. I told her I needed some new curtains, made up some nug shit about my old ones being out dated. Trust an Orleasian to truss their windows seasonally.”

Says the Tevinter snob, Bull thinks fondly, but doesn’t say.

“Anyhow! She offered to have some made up for me, told me to pick whatever strikes my fancy. A little ‘thank you’ from the Inquisition for the Redcliffe business.

What do you think? Anything scream ‘Dorian, son of the House of Pavus’?”

Bull devotes his undivided attention to the pasteboard cards. He can imagine each one hanging above the bed. He mentally tells himself how much he cares about Dorian. Try as he may, he cannot bring himself to give a fuck about the little cloth scraps.

The sharp little pain in his chest returns. Bull feels ashamed and unworthy. All Dorian wants is for the Bull to comment on fibre.

“Do you want me to move in with you?” Bull finally blurts out.

“What?” Dorian’s surprise is genuine.

“I’m sorry, but- I don’t care about the curtains. I’ve been trying to muster up a single shit to give all day, but, I’m sorry, Dorian, I just don’t care.”

“Oh.”

Bull waits for Dorian to get angry. Wonders how much a lightening bolt to the head hurts, anyway.

“I see.” He does not sound angry. He doesn’t sound sad either. Dorian collects swatches, stacking them neatly on the floor.

“How pissed are you right now?” The Bull asks because he honestly can’t tell.

“I’m not mad.” Dorian says quietly. Almost as if it never occurred to him The Iron Bull might fall victim to insecurity or be capable of over thinking a situation.

“Why would you think I wanted you to move in with me?”

“Well,” Bull is beginning to feel embarrassed, “You were asking my opinion on the blankets and then the curtains.”

Dorian chuckles quietly, knowingly.

“Ah.” He says. “I asked your opinion because… your opinion… matters to me?” The second half of his sentence is spoken like it creates a bad taste in his mouth.

“So, you aren’t upset? You really don’t care?” The qunari just needs to make sure. He feels like a complete ass. Can’t believe he took his lieutenant’s word on faith before talking with Dorian.

“I like having my own room. I guess I just wanted you to feel comfortable in it. I thought it a nice gesture, nothing more. You were good enough to put a bolt on your door for me. It seemed I ought to reciprocate somehow. I thought you might appreciate. If I had known it would make you uncomfortable, I would never have asked. I hope you’ll offer your insights, still, as you have them.”

Perchance Krem wasn’t too far off the mark after all.

“Well, then, if all you’re after is my keen Ben-Hasrath’s insight,” Dorian nodded encouragingly, “Then,” Bull shuffles through the cards, handing the mage a garish yellow plaidweave, “This one. I was good enough to put a lock on my door.”

Dorian holds the swatch in his hand as it begins to quake, moustache curling towards his nose in a sneer. The Bull may yet get to experience a lightening bolt to the head.

“Of course, _this_ one.” His expression is one of barely concealed disdain, but Dorian does not raise further objection.

When their eyes meet, Bull is entirely unsurprised to find unbridled lust behind the gaze.

Dorian cannot get out of his pants fast enough, tells The Bull he is a classless bore when the dainty clothing is ripped open.

“You are insufferable.” Dorian snarls against Bull’s lips, biting hard as he moves to mount broad thighs.

Bull fumbles in the sheets, can’t find the vial of viscous lubricant. Before he can ask if soap is an okay substitute, the smaller man grabs both their cocks, presses them together with his hands. They rub together, all friction and desire.

Bull adds a large hand to the hold, moving faster, more deliberately.

“With me.” The Bull says, their foreheads pressed together.

They come together, calling each other’s names.

 

The rest of the night finds Dorian lying on the bed reading, Bull sitting on the rug repainting his Vitaar. The scene is painfully domestic but seems to be lacking some final touch.

Neither can wait for Josephine to requisition their new curtains.

 

Krem sat in the Herald’s Rest, alone with Grim.  

When Cabot shouted an early ‘last call,’ he finished his drink with a grin.

“Putting it on you tab again, boy?” The gruff dwarf snapped.

“Nah, put it on Pavus’s.” Krem nods to his fellow charger. “He owes me one.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dedicate this obscenely long, rambling chapter to BlueTeaParty. Your comments, however brief, have acted as muse.
> 
> I don't know you from Adam, but maybe I know you from Adaar?


End file.
